Liam Barr

It comes out sharper than we meant.
Half a second too quick.
We watch it land on their face.

So we reach for sorry.
We explain what we were trying to say.
We put a softer version on top.

Their face eases.
They say it's fine and they mean it.

But they're a little quieter for the rest of the night.
They laugh a beat later than usual.

Sorry can soften the words.
It can't unsay them.

Virtue always sounds a bit too big for us.
Like it belongs to people with statues.

The old meaning is plainer.
Being good at being a person.

The Stoics split it into four.
Wisdom. Justice. Courage. Self-control.

We use all four most mornings.
A pause before we reply.
The last slice split evenly.
The awkward thing said kindly.
An app closed before the scrolling starts.

Too small for a statue.
The right size for a morning.

Lately, my mornings have aligned.
I reach the tram stop just as one arrives.

I've never checked the timetable.
I haven't needed to.
The trams are frequent but it still feels like synchronicity.

This morning didn't seem so aligned.
I watched as the tram pulled away.

Oh well. Can't always align.

I kept walking at my usual pace.
A missed tram only sours the day if I let it.

Then I noticed another right behind it.

We reached the stop at the same time.
I caught myself grinning at the universe's joke.

The first tram was the setup.
The punchline was a minute behind.